The glow from the tangerine sun masks your weary, vacant heart; like a stitched up Raggedy Andy doll, your derisive blunders and gestures make me wary as I walk on precious egg shells whenever we crisscrosses paths. It’s a pipe dream; what I ardently desire is probably not what I entirely deserve, but that does agonize Mr. Machine; press your button and out pours ostensible data that spews filth in the form of calloused love. It is a crap shoot. I recklessly turn to the magic eight ball and proffer a one final lucid question: “Why? What did you become?”, but the response that is displayed reiterates what I intrinsically ascertain “Outlook not so good.” I wonder if I am just a tad too slow, not picking up the sullied notion that perhaps we are not slated to walk in milky forests or frolic in willowy meadows, that perhaps what you fervently crave is lusty power, the kind that seeps out of stingy eyes and desecrated souls. I nullify this communion, retreat into the depth of oceans blue, discover a sheltered domicile, a haven, under aqua seas, where yellow tangs and marbled angelfish dwell, somewhere never to be detected; I shall swim under orange-red coral reefs in the darkest deep surfs, sure not to collapse in a heap on some encrusted shore unable to inhale translucent air.
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